


Mind Altering

by talboys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Lots of denial, Season 3 Spoilers, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, University Sherlock, familial fallout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talboys/pseuds/talboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has constantly dealt with Sherlock’s demons, which has, of course, created demons of his own. </p><p>**Minor His Last Vow spoilers are included in case you are trying to avoid them.**</p><p>This story deals with drug use and its consequences for the loved ones (or, in this case, one particular loved one) of the user. It is not an issue I approached lightly and may be triggering for some. Hence the rating and this warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind Altering

It had begun, Mycroft knew, at university.

When confronted with the knowledge that his headstrong little brother had decided to try LSD in his second year of university, Mycroft had chalked it up to youthful rebellion. Rebellions, of course, demand a response and so Mycroft had dutifully gone down to Sherlock’s rooms at Oxford to _respond_.

He hadn’t quite been able to repress the sniff of disgust at Trinity’s blue gates as he passed through them – he had been a Balliol student, after all – and Sherlock’s rooms made his lips purse in even greater disgust.

“You know, Sherlock,” he had said, pointedly stepping over several blooming petri dishes that were haphazardly scattered across the floor, “They do have chemistry _labs_ here.”

“Get out.”

“Not until you tell me the reason for your last little experiment.” Mycroft had considered sitting on the bed to demonstrate his commitment to getting his answer, but thought the better of it.

“To which are you referring? Possibly my latest tutorial in organic chemistry?”

“Don’t play smart with me, Sherlock. You know precisely what I’m referring to.”

Sherlock had raised his eyebrows challengingly.

Mycroft remembered how much of a game it had been then: he had removed his gloves slowly, finger by finger, as his eyes took in the cramped and very messy room that Sherlock had set up as his private laboratory. He wished now that he had taken it more seriously, though it was doubtful that his response would have changed much of the situation.

“I do refer to your latest organic chemistry experiments, though not perhaps the ones officially sanctioned by your tutors.”

He had paused for dramatic effect, before continuing. “Your room is uncomfortably warm and damp for the season and you are running a humidifier despite the fact that you have no medical reason to do so. There are bits of organic matter in various stages of decay stuck in petri dishes in strategic locations around this room. Now, these could be anything, but I know for a fact that they are rye and pearl millet.”

Sherlock had glared stonily, though mutinously, back at him and Mycroft had continued on with a bit of vindictive glee.

“You are obviously trying to cultivate ergot which, for someone with your great interest and ability in organic chemistry, can successfully be synthesized into LSD.”

Sherlock had broken in furiously and pompously: “ _I_ am conducting research into the symptoms of ergot poisoning as they compare to the descriptions of mass hysteria…”

Mycroft had sighed, “Try again, Sherlock. And perhaps next time pick a better spot for hiding your synthesis glassware than the back of your wardrobe.”

Disappointment and rage had emanated off of Sherlock in clouds and Mycroft had put his gloves back on slowly and smugly. He remembered what he had said next because he wished rather pointlessly that he could go back and change it.

_If you promise to throw this all out right now, I won’t tell Mother._

If only he had gotten others involved then…

Sherlock, he remembered, had been relieved. He had capitulated so easily, that Mycroft should have seen through it. Instead, he had taken great joy in watching Sherlock bin all of his moldy plants and return the assorted glassware to the Chemistry department.

“I just wanted to see if I could do it,” Sherlock had muttered rather mournfully while gathering the last of the petri dishes from under the radiator.

“Oh? And you had to test its purity as well, did you? For s _cience_ , I presume.” Mycroft had always attempted to edit out the disbelieving snort that he’d added at the end of his response, but it remained fixed quite firmly in his memory.

“Precisely,” Sherlock had retorted rather primly.

It galled Mycroft to think that he had ever been in such a state as _denial_ , but in denial he had been. How foolish and naïve he had been to believe that Sherlock had only tried LSD once to confirm his skills in organic chemistry.

It had been so easy - so logical - to see Sherlock having a one-off, youthful rebellion in one of the few ways he knew how: with science.

While his side research interests, which were so much broader in scope than the narrow confines of an undergraduate chemistry degree, kept him distracted enough to not be the best student of his year, he was still easily near the very top and thus it came as no surprise to Mycroft that Sherlock decided to pursue graduate coursework two years later. 

In fact, Mycroft remembered feeling distinctly relieved at Sherlock's decision: a career as an esoteric professor where he was free to conduct his own research (with appropriate legal limits and university oversight, of course) seemed ideal and quite safe. There was vanity, ego, and a certain degree of freedom inherent to such a career - an excellent match for Sherlock, particularly as he grew up, matured, and mellowed (Mycroft could only hope) with age.  

It had thus raised Mycroft's hackles when he'd discovered that Sherlock had spent a good portion of his first graduate term "partying" (Mycroft did not think it an appropriate term for exactly what went on) in the rather seedy underbelly of the university social scene. Armed with the painful and suspected knowledge that Sherlock had returned to the manufacture of psychedelic substances, Mycroft had left London immediately. This had led to one of their most memorable confrontations:

_"What did I tell you, Sherlock, about this kind of behavior?" Mycroft’s voice was light and pleasant, though steely._

_Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, eyes closed, trying very hard to give off an air of nonchalance, but was failing by constantly curling and uncurling his toes. "Why don't you remind me, brother dear, as you are clearly so eager to do?" Sherlock answered breezily, but with a vein of venom at the center._

_"I'll be calling Mother."_

_"Wrong,” Sherlock retorted quickly. “That was only if I decided not to throw out the ergot experiment."_

_"Oh, so you do remember. Then you’ll remember how that was_ not _what I was implying with that statement, which I’m sure you are very well aware of."_

_"You have no proof that I have been using or even manufacturing anything illegal. Guilt by association is insufficient. And you are exhibiting an unhealthy degree of paranoia." Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the glee out of his voice at being able to poke a hole in Mycroft’s case._

_Mycroft's jaw clenched at this mocking. "Then you certainly won't mind a drug test to give me proof," he said with a tight smile. Sherlock's eyes flew open and his posture and muscles tensed and shifted just enough to show how defensive he felt. Mycroft's satisfaction at being right was tempered by the fury he felt. He was furious with Sherlock, certainly, but also with himself for not having intervened earlier.  
_

_"Get up," he hissed, reaching down to pull Sherlock off of his bed._

_"Don't touch me!" Sherlock spat, as he slapped Mycroft's hand away. "You have no right and you know it."_

_"I have every right." Mycroft reached back down for Sherlock's arm and was shocked when Sherlock slammed a fist – the soft side of his fist rather than his knuckles - just below his kneecap. Mycroft stumbled backwards, wincing: he hadn't expected physical violence. They’d only fought with words before._

_"I told you not to touch me." Sherlock curled into the fetal position with his arms wrapped around his knees, glaring at Mycroft petulantly. He rubbed the side of his hand absently against his leg. Mycroft hoped it hurt._

_Mycroft regained enough composure to say calmly, "Very well, I'll just have a look around, shall I?"_

_Sherlock glared, but did not object._

_Mycroft's eyes scanned the room. Sherlock had gotten better at hiding evidence since his undergraduate days. There were no telltale beakers stuffed into his shoes in the wardrobe nor were there terrifically obvious petri dishes scattered across the floor. Mycroft turned his attention away from the kitchen (far too obvious) and onto Sherlock's desk. There were papers and books piled precariously across the surface and - aha._

_"Stamps, Sherlock?" Mycroft said tightly, his knee still throbbing._

_"Perfectly legal," Sherlock snarled._

_"Certainly, but made suspicious when you have no blank envelopes and further refuse to communicate by anything as 'antiquated' as post."_

_Sherlock said nothing, but then...he really didn't need to. Mycroft resignedly folded the page of stamps into his pocket. He would have them tested later, although he was certain that the chemist would find LSD._

_Mycroft sighed deeply, and looked hard at Sherlock. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"_

_"Get out."_

_Mycroft paused, nodded once, shut the door firmly behind him, and tried not to limp as he walked back to his waiting car._

Mycroft sighed sadly and absently fiddled with his mobile. Perhaps if he'd been more physically aggressive he would have caught a glimpse of Sherlock's arm that day. It was debatable whether or not he would have found needle punctures then - as far as he knew, the heroin hadn't started until after that confrontation - but he held a deep suspicion that it had actually started earlier. At least, the smoking had started earlier, possibly the intravenous usage had not. Perhaps if he had followed through on his threat and had called his parents after receiving the news that the stamps had indeed tested positive, Sherlock wouldn't have fallen in quite as deeply.

Why hadn't he called? Mycroft had spent many uncomfortable hours probing this issue, this apparent weakness. He had eventually concluded that he apparently had a bizarre sense of wanting to protect Sherlock from the world; that he could handle whatever problems Sherlock seemed to have. He had been in complete denial that Sherlock’s problems were too big for him to manage alone. Hallucinogenic usage and possibly small-scale dealing to acquaintances on the side, he had thought. How extraordinary for his mind to have focused on so narrow an interpretation.

In his own fashion, perhaps out of guilt for not involving anyone else, he began to keep a closer eye on Sherlock. He hired various individuals of less than stellar reputation to report back to him about Sherlock's habits when he went out. He was largely not surprised when all of these quasi-agents reported back that Sherlock had indeed been at certain parties and gatherings, but hadn't done anything illegal: Sherlock was clearly trying to keep a low profile. Further, to the best of Mycroft's knowledge, LSD was not a drug to indulge in at a crowded party with loud music. Sherlock may have been acting stupidly, but he certainly wasn't stupid. 

It thus felt like Sherlock had punched him in the gut four months later when the report from one of his agents said that Sherlock had left a party to accompany a heroin dealer back to a squat known for shooting up. Nauseous dread had washed over Mycroft as he mechanically called for a car to take him down to Sherlock's rooms. Remembering it now still brought back a memory of the sick trepidation he had felt:

_With the violence of his last confrontation with Sherlock in mind, he had called for a second car from a discreet clinic that he'd researched in a moment where his denial over Sherlock had clearly been weak._

_Unsure of precisely what he would find, Mycroft unlocked the flimsy door cautiously (with the key that he'd had copied when Sherlock had first moved in) and opened it slowly._

_Nothing happened, so Mycroft walked into the flat._

_Sherlock was sitting on his bed, his face more gaunt than Mycroft remembered, propped up against several pillows. His posture was one of utter relaxation and his face was oddly devoid of expression. Mycroft felt his pulse elevate in sudden fear, but Sherlock wasn't dead; his chest was rising and falling shallowly, but evenly._

_The nausea of earlier and the momentary fear turned to rage as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open slowly._

_"Oh. Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly and hazily, as his eyes blinked in and out of focus. A shadow of a sneer passed over his face as he whispered, "Enjoy your proof."_

_Proof. The word bounced around angrily in Mycroft’s head, threatening to give him a headache. After Sherlock had been bundled not-very-quietly off to the clinic by the remarkably competent employees, Mycroft had examined the cramped flat. On the bedside table were the most damning pieces of evidence: discolored spoon, a belt, cheap cigarette lighter, and a needle. Mycroft studied the needle closely, careful to keep his hands in his pockets to avoid contaminating the scene. Other than the fact that it had obviously been recently used, it seemed to be clean and (fortunately) sterile previous to its (apparent) first use._

_Mycroft pulled a pair of surgical gloves that he’d “borrowed” from one of the clinic workers from his pocket and snapped them on. He then proceeded abandon his do-not-contaminate philosophy in order to tear the flat apart and find every last shred of proof that Sherlock was using drugs. He found three sterile and individually sealed hypodermic syringes inside of a hollowed-out dictionary. There was a small glass pipe taped firmly to the underside of the desk. After dumping out the contents of every jar in the kitchen, he found a small bag of heroin in a jar of whole cloves. He also found a small tin of breath mints wrapped in a pair of socks in the back of the wardrobe (old habits die hard, apparently), which he put aside to have tested._

_After several feverish hours of taking the flat to pieces and putting it back together again, Mycroft stared at this small pile of drug paraphernalia he’d put on the kitchen chair and it filled him with absolute revulsion. He picked up one of the three unused syringes and examined it thoroughly, running his finger gently up the shaft and over the plunger. He then delicately snapped off the needle. Slowly and deliberately he snapped the needles off of the other two._

_He stared at the glass pipe for a while. It was entirely clear – no ribbons of colored glass – save for the smoky black discolorations at the bottom of the bowl from where it was held over a flame. Mycroft retreated to the bathroom for a damp face flannel which he then spread on the floor next to the kitchen chair. He laid the pipe gently at the center of the flannel and then wrapped it neatly, carefully ensuring that it was entirely enclosed. Then, with great surety, he ground the heel of his shoe into the center of the neat parcel until he felt the glass splinter._

_The small bag of heroin and the tin of suspicious breath mints he sealed carefully into a plastic bag which he placed in his own pocket. The broken syringes, spilled spices, and towel filled with broken glass he lay carefully in a large rubbish bag he had brought with him. The used needle, spoon, belt, and lighter he left where they were as evidence._

_Quietly, Mycroft slipped out of the flat, locked the door, and removed his surgical gloves (which he then tucked into the rubbish bag). Casually, on his way back to his car, he dropped the bag into a neighbor’s bin to disappear anonymously into the municipal rubbish collection._

_During the drive back to London, he completed the most difficult part of his afternoon: he called his parents in Oklahoma and delivered the news that their youngest son was in rehabilitation for drug use._

The next several months were excruciating for Mycroft and he could only imagine that they were worse for Sherlock. Their parents had returned to London immediately, seen the evidence on Sherlock’s bedside table that Mycroft had so carefully preserved, and immediately had flown into a combination of worry, fear, and anger like two birds trapped in an attic.

Although they had pushed Mycroft’s patience to its furthest limits, his parents interestingly had never blamed him for Sherlock’s habits. That was, Mycroft thought rather masochistically, not entirely fair. He had seen the warning signs years before and hadn’t intervened thoroughly enough. To a certain extent, it was his fault. Sherlock had been sure to remind him of this on the one time that Mycroft had visited him near the end of his time in rehabilitation.

_“Why did you let me catch you?” Mycroft asked, standing awkwardly in the center of Sherlock’s private room._

_Sherlock was wrapped in a short-sleeved, white institutional dressing gown and tucked carefully into an armchair in the corner of his room. His face looked less gaunt and Mycroft was rather pleased to see that the six needle punctures (he only injected six times before I noticed, Mycroft thought) on his arm had healed into faint pink pin-pricks._

_In his most irritating fashion, Sherlock shrugged. “I was bored.”_

_Mycroft fought hard, but couldn’t keep all of the sarcastic disbelief from his voice. “You decided to risk your life, not to mention your mind and your vanity, because you were bored?”_

_“Yes,” Sherlock said simply._

_Mycroft sighed deeply and shook his head disapprovingly._

_“You don’t know what it’s like living with my mind, Mycroft. Do not pretend that you understand.”_

_“Then why don’t you tell me.”_

_“How can I possibly distill my entire essence into several choice sentences that will explain my entire existence to you?” Sherlock’s voice was full of scorn._

_“You owe me.”_

_“For this?” Sherlock challenged him, waving his hand to indicate the entire nuisance of being placed in a rehabilitation facility._

_“And for arranging to have your flat cleared of all evidence that you were a drug user as well as placing you on official medical leave without elaboration from your coursework, yes.”_

_“Only after you showed the proof to Mum,” Sherlock muttered darkly._

_Mycroft smiled tightly and waited for Sherlock to keep talking._

_Unsurprisingly, he did. He had always loved showing off, even if it was only his own mis-firing neurons._

_“My brain needed something more engaging than chemistry and the boring people at university. Either an entirely new world—“_

_“Hence the psychedelics,” Mycroft interrupted._

_“—or it needed to be stupefied.”_

_“Hence the opiates,” Mycroft finished rather grimly._

_“As you say,” Sherlock conceded._

_The two brothers stared at each other in tense silence and Mycroft considered departing now that he had enough of an answer and little incentive to spend time with a resentful and ungrateful brother._

_“I hate you for doing this to me,” Sherlock said suddenly and bitterly. “I could have stopped if you’d really tried.”_

_“It was my pleasure,” Mycroft replied (more honestly than Sherlock knew)._

_He left, hoping that the pain of enforced sobriety matched the devastation of repetitious denial._

It had taken several years of monitoring – encouraged by his parents, though Mycroft assumed that they weren’t fully aware of his exact methods – before Sherlock found a flat-mate who wasn’t somehow connected to drugs. John Watson had even been rather open and receptive – after he’d gotten over the concept of initially being abducted and interrogated - to the idea that Sherlock needed to be kept busy in order to avoid the temptation of drugs. He’d even fancifully come up with the concept of calling a potentially risky moment a “danger night” which Mycroft had found charming, though rather unnecessary.

Amazingly enough, Sherlock had stayed clean. Even more amazingly, he’d started to treat Mycroft as something other than a sworn and mortal enemy. Mycroft could only explain it as John Watson’s influence. There had been moments of concern, naturally, but Sherlock seemed to have renounced substances. He’d even switched to nicotine patches from the cigarettes that he’d picked up as an undergraduate. Mycroft finally allowed himself to relax about the drugs, if not about the rest of Sherlock’s increasingly dangerous lifestyle.

It was thus with a fresh and yet entirely familiar feeling of nausea and pain that he re-read John’s text from ten minutes ago:

_Confirmed danger. At Barts, he tested positive for heroin. Check Baker St. Be there in an hour._

Feeling the  heavy weight of guilt, dread, and fury descend once again, Mycroft first called Philip Anderson to check the flat and then a car for himself. With a horrible sense of déjà vu, Mycroft headed out to once again confront his younger brother about his drug use.

But this time, Mycroft swore to himself, would be the very last time he would be caught in denial about Sherlock ever again.

 

 

 

 


End file.
